Origins of a D-List Supervillain (18 page)

“Fine, fine,” he said.

“Grab on,” I commanded. “This discussion needs to be held in private.”

“You don’t have to worry about Miranda. She’s harmless and knows better.”

“Just grab on,” I said, and tried to sound annoyed. Come to think of it, it wasn’t such an act on my part.

“Okay,” he replied slowly, and I took off. There was a beach far below and I saw a rocky outcropping jutting out maybe two hundred and fifty yards offshore. We landed over there and I set him down and looked at the water splashing up against the rocks of this tiny little spit of land.

“May I ask what this is about, sir?”

“Do you remember Cal Stringel?”

Part of me was actually worried that I was such an insignificant gnat that he wouldn’t. At a minimum, I always strove to be a memorable gnat.

“Yes,” Barton replied. “Last I’d heard, he’d been effectively marginalized and was working at some titty bar in Alabama, but as you know, I’ve been out of contact with the office. Why do you bring it up? Is there a problem?”

“Do you consider that project to be a success?”

I could see the man making calculations. “Only two people have left your team since we implemented that strategy, and one was understandable, so yes I would consider it a success.”

He’s proud of it, at least. Wonder what happened to the one who was allowed to leave.

“Do you ever think the tactic might lead to problems down the road?”

“I doubt it, sir. At least as far as Stringel is concerned. He poses no threat to our organization, unless there is something you know that I don’t.”

Actually, there are several things I know that you don’t.

“Maybe not to the organization, but to you, personally,” I said, wanting to gauge his reaction.

He drew himself up and stood as proudly as a slightly out of shape, middle-aged man in boxers could and said, “Don’t worry about me, Lazarus. I eat chumps like Stringel for breakfast, but if you feel like he is a credible threat and see fit to supply security, I won’t make a fuss.”

“Actually, I think you need to be worried,” I said and popped the mirrored metal mask on my helmet. “I think you need to be very worried.”

“Stringel!”

He did suddenly look very concerned and that made me very happy.

“What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to come by in person and thank you, Mr. Barton. Without your interference, I never would have made my own armor. I probably would have just invented things for Ubertex until I felt I could move on to my next payday. Did you know that in the past month I’ve made over a million dollars and I owe it all to you.”

“I apologize, but I’ve been on vacation recently, so I haven’t had a chance to keep up with your comings and goings. Rest assured that anything you do to me will be returned on you threefold by Ultraweapon.”

Didn’t realize that I’d invoked some kind of Shakespearean curse.
“Yes, I can see the good time you’ve been having,” I said. “I’m here to pay you back, personally, for all the growth you’ve helped me with. Stay right here and don’t move, if you want to live to see the sunset. Or move, and that will just make my day a whole lot easier.”

Closing my visor, I flew back to his house. Miranda had pulled on some clothes, which was a shame. I was waffling between actress or model, but either one seemed to fit her.

“Where’s Randall?”

“He’s safe, but you need to leave,” I said. “There’s a good chance that a supervillain could attack this house at any minute.”

An extremely good one,
I thought.
Almost a certainty at this point.

To twist the knife a little more, I said, “In fact, there may even be a price on his head, so you may not want to be seen with him for some time to come.”

“Is he still going to introduce me to his director friends?”

“Miss, I hate to be the one to break this to you, but he doesn’t have any director friends.”

“That sonnuvabitch! Now I hope someone does destroy his house!” She stalked away and a minute later I heard the slamming of the door.

Your wish is my command.

• • •

Not wanting to waste much time trashing his house, I took his laptop, identity card, and desktop, ripped his safe out of the wall and set all that at the end of the driveway along with a couple of items from Barton’s garage. His Porsche roadster went over the cliff first and then I flew around and cranked up the force blasters to maximum. There were probably plenty of other things I could have pilfered from the place, but this wasn’t a money making trip.

It took more effort than I thought and half my available power, but I carved a trench in the side of the cliff. A slow rumbling built as first his endless pool emptied itself onto the beach below and then the whole structure began to slip over the side.

“Looks like the land value here has plummeted recently,” I observed, returning to the man, holding a life jacket from his kayak and his Harley-Davidson FX Super Glide. The motorcycle looked to be a well maintained, highly collectible 1971 version. It was a sweet ride and what I was about to do, to me at least, was more criminal than destroying the man’s house.

“You can have one,” I said. “Choose wisely.”

The look on his face told me I’d struck a nerve. “This thing’s a little heavy, so I can’t stay here all day.”

“I’ll take the vest,” the words squeezed out of his mouth painfully.

I dropped the bike into the water and tossed him the vest. “Smart man. It’s a pretty long swim back and the water temp isn’t doing you any favors. Maybe you can just wait here and see if you can flag down someone walking along the private beach. Might be a long wait, though, but I’ll be pulling for you. Now, I’m sure if you make it out of this, you’ll go crying to Ultraweapon. Make sure to tell him that I’ll get to him one of these days, but if he comes looking, then I might have to make a habit of hitting his business interests. That’s the problem with being all over the place, so many things to protect.”

“You’ll get yours in the end, Stringel,” he said, making an empty threat.

“It’s Mechani-CAL to you, Francis. Plus, you can count on me coming around every now and again to kick over whatever anthill you call home. I’m guessing after the first couple of times, you’ll have a hard time getting any kind of insurance and the nice thing is, I can show up any old time and drop in on you. You made a game out of destroying my life, now I’m going to make a game out of doing it to you. See you around Francis. Enjoy your swim.”

Flying away, I stopped to pick up the goods I’d taken. The contents of his safe might be interesting as well as the things he keeps on his computer. Twenty miles inland, Bobby was waiting for me and gorging on In and Out burgers. I wouldn’t mind a bite to eat either; my appetite for revenge had been sated for the moment, but I’d be hungry again by my next stop in Biloxi. Ultraweapon might come looking for me but, more likely, he’d waste assets protecting his branch offices and his turd of a vice president.

Bobby warned me that I shouldn’t go looking to fight any superheroes and I’d done my level best to stick to his advice, but for the Biloxi Bugler I’d make an exception.

• • •

The armor itself was a little uncomfortable to sleep in, but I managed. Bobby would drive several hours and then stop at whatever hotel caught his eye and pull in to get some rest. I’d just wait in the van.

“Cal, are you going to take the armor off eventually? It’s been a couple of days now.”

“Not until we’re back at our base,” I said. “And not when I’m so close to taking my revenge!”

“Don’t you think that’s a little...odd?”

“Don’t judge me! Besides I’m making sure I’m ready to fight The Bugler.”

“You need a lot of planning for that? He’s kind of a has-been.”

“Bobby, he beat me once,” I said. “I don’t want that to happen again.”

“I could probably knock him around a bit, if you want. We fought a long time ago. I took him then; I could take him now, especially since he looks more like the Biloxi Blob. The guy has really let himself go to shit, but hey, don’t let me get in the way of your vendetta.”

Maybe it was a touch of megalomania, or that I was feeling good about getting back at Barton; either way I didn’t really care. Today was “Biloxi Appreciates Our Bugler day” and I wanted it to be one he wouldn’t forget.

Ignoring Bobby’s jibes, I tuned into the local coverage. Naturally, there was a parade and people lining the streets of the city waving plastic bugles.

There he was, sitting on a float with his uniform on and a big sash that said Grand Marshal on it.

“All right, Bobby, I’m going to go and get him,” I said.

“Have fun, I guess,” he said, clearly not approving. It was tempting to throw his grudge against Seawall in his face, and call him a hypocrite, but I wasn’t sure he’d understand the word.

I took to the air and started flying. Today was about exorcising demons. Bobby couldn’t get it. Streaking over the parade route, I saw people pointing up in the sky at me. They were cheering and thought it was some kind of special surprise, which in a way, it was.

Pulling ahead of the main float, of course it was a bugle, I turned and hovered. Beauregard Carr, also known as The Biloxi Bugler looked at me sideways and held his bugle at the ready. He moved next to his motorcycle, painted to look like the state flag of Mississippi. Carr had taken enough flak over the years for his cape looking like the Confederate flag, and had changed it out in favor of a simple gray one, but he never budged on the motorcycle. It was somewhat commendable.

I pointed at him and kicked on my loudspeakers, “I’m Mechani-Cal and I’m here for my revenge on you, Bugler.”

What Bobby said was true; time hadn’t done Mr. Carr any favors. Several cops on motorcycles pulled up and the parade drew to a halt.

“If that’s really you, Calvin Stringel, then, I guess there’s no talkin’ you out of this,” the man answered in his southern drawl, seemingly not nervous. “I’ll fight you, but let’s not do it here—too many innocent people around. I don’t mind endangering myself, but no sense in anyone else getting hurt.”

“Fine by me,” I replied.

He mounted his crotch rocket, which sagged under his girth, and said, “Follow me.”

The crowd cheered him as he started the bike and a few even chucked stuff at me as I trailed behind him. It got me wondering if my bright idea to humiliate him on “his day” was such a great idea. It wasn’t playing out nearly how I thought it would.

He pulled into the parking lot at an abandoned factory and hopped off the bike. As I touched down, the first blast of concentrated sonic waves smacked against my shields.

Fatman isn’t so slow on the draw,
I thought as another burst hit me. My shields were holding nicely, but I had to admit he was good and didn’t use any kind of targeting system that I could see.

“My turn,” I said, giving him a shot of low intensity force blasters that sent him spinning sideways. I thought the bugle would go flying, but he seemed to have some kind of tether on it that kept it close.

He jerked it back to his hands and fired twice more and I noted that his best efforts had so far knocked only eight percent off of my shields.

The Bugler dodged my next blast and I was impressed that he could still move that well for his size.

Instead of trading energy blasts with him, I started walking toward him and right through his bursts. He tried to back away, but I was too quick and grabbed his arm. He screamed and I realized that I’d put a little too much effort into it and had broken his arm. He fought through the pain and managed to flip his bugle into his off hand and let me have it point blank. Even my shields and ear protection couldn’t stop that from getting through and ringing my bell.

Somewhere in that, I let go of him and he staggered from me trying to keep up his sonic assault. I threw my hand out and dialed up a higher level force blast that hit him like a sledgehammer.
Maybe too much,
I thought and stumbled over to him.

He was still alive and clutching his chest. The Bugler tried to raise his instrument, but didn’t have enough breath to blow it.

Sputtering some blood from the corner of his mouth, he looked at me and wheezed, “You can break me, but you can never truly defeat me.”

“You look pretty defeated to me,” I said. “The ribs? Are they broken?”

He nodded and I continued, “Since I can’t put you in prison, I’ll settle for putting you in the hospital.”

“Does that make you happy? Do you feel like a bigger man?”

“No, I suppose not. I had it all in my head where I beat you and snap your bugle in two.”

He looked at his invention and said, “I’m in no position to stop you. Can’t even take a deep breath right now.”

Looking down at his weapon, I appreciated the craftsmanship he’d put into it. “Nah, you’ll need it for the next time we tussle.”

I doubted there’d be a next time. This was a bad idea from the start. I was just a little too obsessed to see it.

He managed a painful smile and said, “I’m a little old to be picking up an archenemy, Mr. Stringel. Then again, I might come up with a better version that’ll crack your armor open like a can of tuna.” 

The emergency sirens were getting close and I lingered just long enough to see the first of them pulling into the parking lot before I turned back to Beau Carr and said, “I’ll stay out of Biloxi as long as you’re out of commission. Plenty of other places around here.”

“Evil never truly prospers, Calvin Stringel. It might seem like it does for a short time, but it never wins.”

His pithy expression had no real effect on me; I shrugged and activated my jetpack. The Bugler had humiliated me years ago and I’d returned the favor today. This wasn’t like Barton, who’d kept after me. As far as I was concerned, the scales were balanced.

Revenge might be a dish best served cold, but sometimes cold revenge leaves a bad aftertaste in the mouth.

• • •

The fallout from my
Bugler Beatdown
had the Gulf Coasters putting me on their most wanted list—at number seven. Then again, considering half their payroll was coming from Lazarus Patterson, it might be due to Promethia’s influence.